


Man's Best Friend

by valderys



Category: Traders (TV 1995)
Genre: Community: slashfest, Fluff, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-02
Updated: 2010-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-10 21:56:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Woof," said Grant, and sat up on his haunches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man's Best Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2007, written to the prompt, 'man's best friend'.

"Woof," said Grant, and sat up on his haunches. He put his head to one side and widened his eyes. Then he shook himself and ducked back down, disappearing beneath the table.

Donald looked at Jack. Jack looked back at him. Jack continued to eat his cereal, the clink of the spoon hitting the sides of the bowl sounding loud and insistent. Donald wanted to say something to break the silence, but didn't quite know how. He buttered his toast instead.

"_Woof_," said Grant again, more pointedly this time, but didn't emerge. Jack shook the pages of his Toronto Star in a significant way. Donald sighed faintly. You know, he might not be the be the most… most… _pro-active_ member of Gardner Ross, but Jack could beat him on passive aggressive behaviour, every time.

"It's Saturday," said Jack, and stuck his chin out. "It's your turn."

"But I had the night terrors, and the chocolate Easter bunny fiasco to deal with," objected Donald, "And _you_ said…"

Jack stuck his chin out more, and hunched his shoulders, for all the world as though he was in that gym he frequented, getting ready to take down some bruiser – to _slug it out_, as Donald believed the phrase was. Donald rolled his eyes.

"Fine, fine…"

Donald slid easily off his highly chromed stool, and bent to look under the breakfast bar. At least he didn't have to stoop far. Grant was sitting happily curled up on his favourite plaid blanket, which he appeared to have dragged under the table from his room. He had a packet of cheese puffs open and scattered, which he was licking. He had orange powder on his nose.

"Woof," said Grant happily.

Great, thought Donald.

"Uh, Jack?" he called, "We appear to have acquired a dog." He stared at Grant, who almost met his eyes. "We seem to have acquired a messy, badly trained dog, who might need to be punished, if he keeps up that thing with the cheese puffs."

Grant ducked his head and wriggled, like he was embarrassed and proud all in one go. Then he whined, honest to god whined, like a real puppy. Donald felt his heart melt, just as messily, like it always did.

He lowered himself all the way to the floor and squashed his way in under the table, until he was sitting on the blanket along with Grant. It was reasons like this that kept Donald paying his cleaner the big bucks. It was spotless under here. He looked up and admired the shiny underside.

Grant picked up the end of a rubber bone in his teeth and dropped it onto Donald's knees. Then he ducked under his arm and buried himself in his lap with a little sigh, his head butting into Donald's stomach. Without hesitation, Donald began to run his fingers through Grant's hair. It was fine and silky soft, the curls clinging to his fingers.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, Donald leaning against the chrome supporting pillar, Grant in his lap, until Donald was almost certain that Grant had fallen asleep. Jack hadn't moved. Donald watched his hairy knees poke out from his robe, watched one strong calf bob up and down on the rung of the stool.

Carefully, Donald reached out, and flicked Jack's shin – hard.

"Hey!" said Jack, and Donald grinned.

"Umm. I was wondering if… You know… A man could starve under here. When there's toast, just waiting…"

The flexing muscles on the stool were still and tense. Donald swallowed, suddenly sure he'd gone too far somehow – he was so consistently afraid he would do something wrong, that he'd almost given up on recognising the actual occasions when he had.

But Jack just slid off his stool, and Donald breathed again, before flushing a little, feeling silly. There was a clatter above him, and then Jack ducked down. He was smiling, and Donald smiled back, before talking the little plate, with the toast, that he was offered. He balanced it on Grant's hipbone.

There was a bark of laughter, a strange almost animal sound, that was Jack in the grip of humour, and not in pain like it sounded. Donald huffed and petted Grant's hair some more.

"You guys comfy?" asked Jack.

"What do you think?" replied Donald.

Jack picked up a cheese puff and popped it in his mouth. Yep, that was Jack Larkin, Cheetos for breakfast, not a problem. Donald refrained from mentioning that Grant had probably licked it, Jack didn't need to know everything. Donald had to get his kicks from somewhere, after all…

"Any chance you can pass me the First Canadian Fund News or something?" he tried, hoping to appeal to Jack's protective streak, and not his quixotic whimsy. It wouldn't be beyond him to leave Donald here all day.

Jack unbent, and shuffled off. Donald watched him go, black leather slippers sliding along his polished floor. Grant twitched in his sleep and Donald ran his hand down Grant's arm, curling his fingers under his elbow. Grant turned his face into Donald's leg and sighed.

The kitchen door banged as Jack came through it backwards, and Donald sat up a little straighter. Jack had his arms full, and was manoeuvring with difficulty, before he grunted, and puffed, and grumbled his way down onto the floor, and then under the table with them both. It was getting to be a tight squeeze.

Big blunt fingers cupped Donald's head, and tugged him forward, before slipping a pillow behind his back. Another pillow landed on the blanket beside him, and with a final grunt, Jack collapsed next to Donald, slapping his Fund newsletter onto the knee Grant wasn't drooling on.

Donald eyed him. Jack stared back. Then Jack's eyes slid down and away, frowning, looking for the Toronto Star. He'd fool anyone if it wasn't for the hint of pink heating the back of his neck.

"What?" Jack demanded, without looking up, but Donald only shook his head, feeling smug, feeling strangely happy.

Rather than saying anything, instead he leaned forward, as much as he could, and smacked a big wet one onto Jack's hair, before he was batted roughly away.

Donald smiled, and ate his toast. It was funny, the things that could make you feel loved.


End file.
